


A third pair of eyes

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Exhibitionist Thoughts, Harry is basically a Trophy Husband, Is this dirty talk?, M/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, mild jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22806442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Anyone could just walk in.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 213





	A third pair of eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Something about this just feels... urgh. So apologies for that.

The door to the study was barely shut before Tom was pushing him back against the wall just to the left of the doorframe. His right hand, dipping down Harry’s waist, the palm pressing into his hip and curving around the bone; his left, braced, flat, against the wallpaper, just above Harry’s ear, but still close enough that he could feel the heat and slight shifting of each of Tom’s fingers.

They were too close to be anything but indecent. 

Far too close. 

And like this Harry felt just so small, so powerless and that was just the greatest thrill to be had. Something sticky and addictive sliding around under his skin, slipping through every blood vessel and filling up the hollows with an endless _anticipation_ that made his lungs buzz and his breathing come too fast.

Harry shut his eyes in a poor attempt to increase the suspense just that little bit more.

Behind his lids, in that solidifying black with the edges tinged red, he tried to focus on breathing, just in and out and in and out, and not thinking at all about Tom. Not thinking about the heat of his right hand, pressing so insistently against his shirt and the curving of his fingers as they tried to get under the fabric. And certainly not thinking about how close they were together, close enough to taste Tom’s cologne on the back of his throat; that thick, heady, scent that always got Harry playing daring games. 

Daring games like winding Tom up as tight as he could, even when he knew he shouldn’t, just because he knew it would end them up here: pressed so intimately together in someone else’s study, with the sounds of polite conversation happening only a few short feet away, on the other side of the wall. 

Harry could hear them right now, the bubbling exchanges, all filled up to the brim with the lilts of clipped accents and dry politics that had made him so… bored. There had been nothing for him to do other than hang off Tom’s arm, and smile pleasingly, even as Tom talked about this and that, and everyone pretended to listen, even as they furtively glanced in his direction; as obvious as foxes in the snow. 

_They_ were all interested.

But Tom was being apathetic at best, just dragging him from the corner of this room to the corner of that one. Before making him stand there with a simpering smile as Tom himself engaged in light political repartee; most of which went over Harry’s head.

So, was it _really_ wrong to want a little bit of attention to himself?

Harry had decided not. 

Hence, he couldn’t help leaning against Tom too much, gripping too hard on his arm, and reaching up too often, to brush his mouth over the shell of Tom’s ear in the guise of murmuring important titbits of information. He simply couldn’t help but push out the parameters of decency, until Tom finally acknowledged him.

And it had been quite the acknowledgement.

The ache in his shoulders from the texture of the wall, and the firm press of his heels right up against the skirting was enough to remind him that, very much like a little bird that unsettles the snow, he’d started an avalanche of events he couldn’t control anymore. Events he didn’t really _want_ to control.

Harry licked his lips and let his head fall back against the wallpaper with a heavy thunk that they _must_ have heard on the other side of the wall. Not that Harry cared about something as trivial as other people when he had Tom to himself, but despite all that indifference, Harry couldn’t help his heart racing in his chest at the thought of someone wandering casually in. Perhaps they wanted a moment to themself and wouldn’t even notice the two of them standing there, behind the door, until it was too late, or perhaps, they’d been watching and waiting for the right moment to follow.

Whatever their motivations, by that point, it would be futile trying to stop Tom taking what he wanted, and whoever it was would get to see _everything_. Harry could imagine the sight in fantastical clarity, and just the thought of watching someone’s mouth hang open and their eyes take on a scandalised shape made his palms damp, and an incessant dryness spread over the insides of his mouth.

He’d like that. 

_He’d like that a lot._

Holding eye contact with someone else even whilst Tom systematically took him apart; having to watch them watch him, even as his own spine was curving in on itself and every muscle was melting under Tom’s talented tongue or mouth or fingers.

But therein lay the problem. Although Harry couldn’t be sure, he suspected that Tom’s self-confessed possessiveness would most likely disincline him from sharing what he’d lay claim to, with anybody else. But, then again – Harry sucked in a breath between his teeth – perhaps with the right _leverage_ and, even more so, the right _reward_ , Tom might just be persuaded to give up just a fraction of his prerogatives. 

Harry swallowed and tried to ignore the squeezing in his stomach at the thought of what sharing might do to Tom; what new thread of coveting it might be coaxed out from under his skin. Jealousy, maybe, which, in itself, was, after all, something Harry had wanted to experiment with, and merely having a third pair of eyes might just be the safest way to do it.

It was certainly the most tempting way. 

_Irresistible_ , really. 

And maybe, just _maybe_ , Tom was considering it too because he hadn’t locked the door. Normally he was fastidious about those sorts of details, never forgetting himself, even for a moment because Tom always had to be on top of everything, however menial. But now, Tom hadn’t taken any of his usual precautions, but was still working his too hot fingers under Harry’s shirt and probably leaving fingerprints in his skin. 

It made Harry’s hands itch with wanting. Made him think about doing foolish things like pulling off Tom’s jacket and dragging him closer and working his own hands into his hair and making a mess. But that wasn’t his role, and even less was it his place, so, despite himself, Harry kept his hands to his sides, pressed flat against the wall, and waited for the inevitable bite of Tom’s teeth and the increasing grip of his fingers.

But it didn’t come. 

In fact, the wait stretched on. 

Only punctuated by the continued pressure of Tom’s palm, hard, into his hipbone, the fingers leaving the skin of his abdomen, to instead brush over Harry’s thigh in a way that made him squirm. Not to mention, the slow, controlled, evenness of Tom’s breathing, close enough to Harry’s ear that his own body tried to match the pattern of inhaling and exhaling. And, of course, that residual body heat was undeniable, an almost pulsing aura of magic forcing itself against Harry’s lungs and suffocating him from the inside out. 

“You were being such a distraction in there, Harry,” Tom said eventually, the heat of his words flickering over the skin at Harry’s neck and making every hair stand on end. It was a superficially sweet tone; sugar-coated sourness that got Harry pressing himself harder into the wall, his fingers scrunching against his shirtsleeves; whilst every conscious part of him tried to ignore the blooming heat that pushed its way through his every blood vessel. 

“No one could take their eyes off you.”

Harry exhaled sharply, knowing a heat was spilling down his neck, and he was biting at his lip; chewing at it until the skin was numbing under the pressure of his own teeth, and his mouth felt thoroughly abused. A part of his wanted to open his eyes and look at the sleek slant of Tom’s smile, and the darkness of his eyes, swirling with cephalopodic shapes; but a much larger part of him wanted to stay in the dark. Just enveloped in the black and the heat and the sensation of Tom’s fingers wandering to places they shouldn’t. 

Tom didn’t seem to mind his blindness though, as he continued to press closer; the edge of his hip pushing into Harry’s skin and the presence of his hand boxing him into _exactly_ the place Tom wanted him to be. “But why shouldn’t they, Harry? When you look so good,” Tom murmured, the edge of his lips just skimming over Harry’s throat. “Practically good enough to eat, I’d say,” he continued, nicking the skin with the very apices of his teeth. “And they all wanted a bite, didn’t they?”

Without meaning to, Harry sagged against the wall, that lovely, burning heat swinging low in his stomach, churning it up like seashell in the waves. Like this, every part of him just felt loose and open, exposed in a way that only Tom could make him, and the thought of _someone else_ being witness to this sent prickles over every inch of his skin. 

“And you wanted them to, didn’t you, Harry?” Tom murmured, his mouth running right along the edge of Harry's jaw, just daring him to reply.

But before Harry could say anything either in his defence or merely a reply, Tom stepped away. The suddenness of the change made Harry open his eyes quite involuntarily and stare at the gap between them that became cold and endless in an instant. Even though it was a terrible idea, Harry wanted nothing more than to reach forward and grab at the lapels of Tom’s jacket and mouth at the hollows of his neck until the fabric was wet with saliva, and Tom’s skin was slicked shiny, and he’d changed his mind.

But if he did that, Tom would just leave now.

He’d done it before. 

Just walked out and made Harry wait. More than once, he’d left him aching for it, all the way through the dinner course, and when Tom had finally relented, he’d still only let Harry have the fifteen minutes before dessert to satisfy himself. Tom could be difficult like that, but Harry always got him back at the next social engagement. 

They made an equilibrium of sorts. 

Always pushing against each other, trying to make the other bend or bow or break, though, right now, Tom was winning. That would have been obvious to anyone because he was there, his left hand still braced against the wall, but the rest of him far enough away for Harry to crave the touch but get none of the satisfaction, looking completely at ease. Whilst, Harry knew he looked an absolute mess just from five minutes alone with his husband.

And didn’t Tom know it?

He stood there, eyes splaying all over him; taking in every detail until Harry was squirming. Not that the heat inside him, nor the embarrassing flush under his collar was subsiding, if anything they only intensified under Tom’s scrutiny, and _that_ made Tom smile. 

Then, as if he were valve that needed its pressure released, Tom shifted forward and pushed the nail of his thumb up into Harry’s chin, raising it, slightly. He smiled again. “You want them to see how shameless you are, don’t you, Harry?” he said softly, though there was something hot and unfamiliar in his tone, something that made Harry’s stomach clench and his fingers twist harder at his sleeves. 

“You want them to watch you.”

The nail pressed harder, and Tom leaned close enough that Harry struggled to focus on his face. “And you want them to _want_ you,” Tom murmured, the flickering in his eyes somehow unreadable, “don’t you, Harry?”

Without even thinking, Harry nodded. 

That seemed to give Tom the answer that he wanted for he stepped back again, his eyes dropping to take in the sight, almost certainly admiring his own seductive abilities. Then he turned away and for one, horrible, moment, Harry thought Tom was going to leave him there, aching for it, _again_. 

But instead of leaving, Tom walked over the chair placed on the visitor’s side of the desk. It was made of leather, cracked with age and use. Not that that stopped him sitting on it with his legs spread apart and one hand resting heavy on his thigh, the other stretched out along the length of the chair arm. Like that he was quite the portrait of power; enough that Harry’s stomach curled itself a little tighter, and he swallowed a little harder.

Despite the hammering of his heart, the sound of the party continued to swell, engulfing them in the noise almost like they were all in here already. Though every so often there was the tell-tale sound of someone colliding with the door, quite unintentionally. Their weight putting pressure on the mechanism and making it rattle. 

Soon it would give. 

Unless…

Harry swallowed hard. Unless someone opened it right up at their own accord and came in here to take a breath of air. But that trail of thought was interrupted by Tom’s heel knocking against the floor a couple of times.   
“Come on then, Harry,” he said, leaning further back, “though I suggest you take it slow,” he continued, a smile starting to pull at the right corner of his mouth, and the tip of his tongue wetting his lips, “after all, you never know who might walk in.”

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of want to continue this.


End file.
